


Stories We Tell

by biblionerd07



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:19:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times Bucky tells stories about Steve, +1 time it's the other way around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories We Tell

Bucky puts his hands on his hips and looks down at the guy on the ground, who just got in a fight with two other, bigger boys and is still struggling to stand up, even after Bucky chased them off by threatening to tell their mothers. (Bucky Barnes fights dirty and isn’t a lick ashamed of it.)

“Well?” Bucky asks.

“Well what?” The little guy snaps back.

“Whatcha fighting for?”

The guy finally gets to his feet and somehow musters up a whole lot of dignity to dust the dirt off his pants. “They were chasing a dog.”

“So?”

“They were throwing rocks at him!” The guy’s blue eyes blaze and it makes Bucky grin.

“Well, that ain’t right,” he says, mostly to appease the kid. It works, a little; the fire in his eyes dies down a little and he dabs at his bleeding lip with a handkerchief.

“No, it ain’t.”

“I’m Bucky.” Bucky sticks out his hand like a real gentleman, all grown up and proper.

“Steven.” Steven shakes his hand and starts to walk away. Bucky follows him, chattering the whole way about baseball and his new baby sister, and Steven stops so suddenly a block from the butcher that Bucky walks into his skinny back.

“You following me?” Steven asks, all hunched shoulders and hostility.

“Yes,” Bucky answers primly. “Now quit interrupting.” They keep walking.

Steven keeps shooting him confused looks and Bucky just keeps talking. He follows Steven all the way to a rundown tenement, up the stairs, down a drab hall, and into his small, cramped apartment that smells like cabbage. A blonde woman springs up when she sees Steven’s swollen lip, no longer bleeding, and she shakes her head.

“Steven,” she scolds in a lilting voice. She notices Bucky and pauses. “Hello, there.”

“Hello, ma’am,” Bucky says with every ounce of politeness he possesses. “Your boy Steve here is my new best friend.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up—Bucky’s not sure if it’s at the diminutive or the declaration—and the woman Bucky can tell is his mother smiles.

“Is that so?” She asks. “And how did that come to be?”

“Steve’s a real hero!” Bucky launches into a slightly more dramatic retelling of the story, embellishing the parts he saw and making up parts he didn’t, and by the time he finishes, Steve’s forgotten he ever objected to Bucky at all.

 

Bucky’s moving gingerly, sore and tired and cold and muddy, pulling his filthy shirt over his head and grumbling when it catches on his tags, when Dugan’s boisterous voice calls out from behind him.

“Shit, Jimmy boy, what’s that scar on your back? Get it from a dame’s boyfriend?”

Bucky tosses his shirt in the vague direction of his pack and twists around to catch sight of the jagged line down his back that curls around his hip.

“Nah, from a beer bottle. Bar fight.”

“Bar fight?” Gabe echoes incredulously. “You get in a lot of those?” Bucky knows they’re having trouble picturing it; he’s a pretty mild guy when he’s not spitting bullets and mortars at Krauts, the way they have been out on the line for the last six days.

“Well, now, I didn’t start it,” Bucky insists innocently. “See, my best pal Steve, he’s got a real strong moral compass and when he sees something that ain’t right he’s got to fix it.”

“And you did something wrong?” Dugan guesses wryly.

“Hell no,” Bucky scoffs. “I help him. Just said he’s my best pal, didn’t I?”

“Sounds like trouble,” Gabe laughs.

“Jones, you got no idea,” Bucky groans. “I don’t know I’ve been a week since I met him I haven’t been in a fight.”

“Why’d you stick with him?” Nelson, the youngest kid in their group, the one who makes Bucky’s heart squeeze when he looks at him because he’s small and his limbs are skinny and his hair’s blond, asks, eager to be part of the conversation.

“He never fought for anything wrong.” Bucky shrugs. “Always stitched me up after. Course that scar probably wouldn’t be so bad if he _hadn’t_ , ‘cause he’s not real good at it, but still. Thought that counts.”

“So what was the bar fight over?” Dugan asks, grinning.

“Ah, fellas, there was this girl, real pretty, and a big ol’ brute who wouldn’t leave her alone, see, and Steve don’t take kindly to that…” And Bucky’s off, recounting Steve’s fire too large for his body, his bravery making him wade into fights too big for his fists.

 

They’re hunkered down in the snow, shivering and pressing together for warmth, and it’s a miserable night, tense and anxious, after a miserable day of blood and bullets. Bucky wants to close his eyes, wants to click his heels together like Dorothy with her ruby slippers in the picture Steve dragged him to twice, wants to open the squeaky door and put his weight behind closing it because it’s just a little warped and doesn’t quite fit the door frame, turn around and see Steve sketching at the table in fading light in just his undershirt, suspenders hanging down at his sides.

The wind picks up, and somewhere down the line someone whimpers at the way it cuts through every layer of clothing. Bucky has his jaw clenched tight to stop his teeth from chattering. He’s got a hand resting on his rifle, always, always, and periodically he glances through the scope just in case the scouts are falling asleep on the job.

“S-Sarge?” Gabe grinds out. “Tell us some more stories about your best pal Steve.” He gives a significant half-glance at Nelson and some other of the younger guys, their faces pale and grim, and Bucky nods slightly. He gets it. They need it.

“I already tell you bums about the time Stevie and I saved up for two weeks to see a movie and he got in a fight before the newsreel ended?”

There are huffs of laughter around him, eager faces turned toward him to hear the story better. One guy shakes his head and mutters, “Ah, Steve.” Says it like he knows Steve, ain’t that a classic Steve thing to do.

“I mean, of course, Steve was _justified_ ,” Bucky defends his best friend, picturing Steve’s righteous anger face with a pang in his chest. He thinks of Steve’s bloody lip and his stomach aches because he doesn’t know what Steve’s doing now. He hasn’t gotten a letter in nearly a month and Becca’s last letter said they haven’t seen Steve around lately. Bucky’s afraid of what that might mean.

He tells them about Steve, about how he always thinks he’s right and how he’s never been afraid to go toe to toe with a guy twice his size, and he hopes Steve is warm and dry and safe back at home.

 

“Barnes,” Dugan whispers hoarsely, voice strained from too much work and not enough water. “Give us a story.”

Bucky grits his teeth and shakes his head, looking around at the bars on the cell. He won’t bring Steve here, not even for comfort. Steve doesn’t belong in a drafty factory, surrounded by dust that would make his lungs seize up, taking beatings from guards because there’s no way he’d keep his mouth shut. Steve is sunshine and sketch paper, even when he’s snow and pneumonia, and Bucky won’t air even his memory in this place, in case it brings bad luck to Steve.

But later, Nelson is lying on the ground with his head in Bucky’s lap and the color in his face is steadily draining away, his eyes getting more and more glassy, and he opens his cracked, bleeding lips and begs, “Please, Sarge.”

Bucky bites his lip hard enough to draw blood but it’s not a real choice. The kid’s about to die in Bucky’s lap; they all know it. Even if Bucky could keep refusing him, he knows Steve would be pissed to high heaven if he found out Bucky refused a man’s dying wish. Not like Steve will ever know, anyway, because Bucky’s sure to die here, too. But it’s the principle of the matter, and principles have always been real important to Steve.

“We got in this big fight when we were sixteen,” Bucky starts, whispering to avoid drawing attention from the guards. “Not a fight with other guys, like usual—it was me and Steve fighting. Even best pals fight sometimes, you know how it is. Didn’t talk for a week.”

“What happened?” Nelson breathes, eyes wide.

“I don’t even remember,” Bucky lies. What happened was Steve got his first kiss from Alice Nichols and Bucky was jealous enough to spit but too chicken shit to do a thing about it. In the end Steve was the one who fixed things, of course, by being brave and shoving Bucky against the chipped countertop of Sarah Rogers’ kitchen and kissing him senseless. “It was the most miserable week of my life,” Bucky adds. He doesn’t mention _until now_. It wouldn’t do anyone any good.

 

“…and she says to me, Jim Morita, you watch that mouth ‘fore I smack it again!” Morita finishes a story to raucous laughter from the rest of the guys. Bucky’s trying to listen, honest, he is, but his eyes keep sliding out of focus.

“Oh, and I’m so sure you obliged.” Falsworth rolls his eyes good-naturedly while Gabe translates some of the more colorful colloquial phrases for Dernier.

They’ve been off on their own, the special team, the Howling Commandos, for nearly two weeks now, and Bucky’s not quite sure why he’s the only one who can’t seem to shake off what happened in the factory. They were all prisoners, besides Steve, but none of them seem like they’re fraying at the edges, the way Bucky feels.

He knows what Steve would say, if Bucky would open his mouth—Bucky was on Zola’s table, and no one else was. He feels a little vindicated by that; none of them, not even Steve, know what he went through on that table. He hasn’t said a word about the needles that shot fire into his veins or the agony that felt like his whole body was on fire, every muscle screaming and pulling to get away from his bones, the way Zola took a scalpel and sliced neat lines into his skin, scribbling notes onto his clipboard, muttering in German that somehow became clearer and clearer to Bucky, poking and prodding and cutting and—

“Buck,” Steve says lowly, right beside Bucky. Bucky blinks a few times, wondering when Steve came and sat down. He was radioing Philips and Carter not five seconds ago, Bucky could have sworn. Bucky’s hit by a full-body shudder he can’t quite repress, the way the old ladies back home used to say meant someone walked over your grave.

It doesn’t escape Steve, who presses his lips together tightly in worry. Bucky shakes his head a little, because he can’t take another round of the _talk-to-me-I-can’t_ argument they’ve been having for two weeks.

It also, apparently, doesn’t escape Dugan, who’s kept an eye on Bucky since the day he landed on British soil, a watchdog in a bowler. “Jimbo!” He booms out. “Now that we have a face to put to the stories, give us a good one about Steve.” There’s a look in his eyes, a slight tension around his mouth that tells Bucky this isn’t just for fun; he thinks Bucky needs distracting. And maybe he does.

Steve makes a surprised little noise and Bucky manages a smirk. “Yeah, Stevie,” he teases. “Been telling all the boys from England to Italy about your fights.”

“Your fame proceeds you, Captain America,” Gabe says dryly.

“I don’t know ‘bout no Captain America,” Bucky protests. “But I got some stories about my best pal little Stevie Rogers that’ll knock your socks off.”

Steve’s face is flushing, but Bucky knows him well enough to know he’s pleased that Bucky’s been talking about him. His body now’s supposed to be all perfect, but he’s still got that same heart, that self-consciousness from years of being looked down on for his size and his health issues that makes him surprised Bucky would tell anyone about him.

“So one time, I get us these dates, right? Real swell girls, they’re cousins—we coulda married ‘em, probably, and lived right next door like we always planned when we were kids. But Steve’s date thought unions were just the devil’s handiwork, so of _course_ Steve’s gotta tell her what for…” Bucky keeps himself present the whole time he’s telling the story, elbowing Steve when Steve tries to point out what he claims are _embellishments_ on Bucky’s part, and they keep the boys laughing and their arms pressed close together, and Bucky can breathe again.

 

Bucky is sitting in a gigantic bedroom that is about the size of his first apartment, and all for one person. He’s currently sitting on the floor, because the bed is a monstrosity he just can’t figure out. He’s sitting on the floor in this gigantic bedroom and he’s eavesdropping as Steve makes light, friendly conversation with Sam, Natasha, and Clint in the kitchen.

Bucky is hiding, because Bucky’s still a coward.

He knows Steve wishes he would come out and talk, too. Steve wishes Bucky could be that same gap-toothed kid who followed him home, and Bucky can’t decide who’s more upset that he can’t go back. It’s just…it’s _draining_ , is what it is, having to figure out how to talk to these mostly-strangers, how to arrange his face into the right expressions, how to move so that he makes noise and doesn’t startle people. It’s exhausting and it’s doubly exhausting to see the disappointment on Steve’s face when he fails.

So he hides.

But then he hears his own name come out of Steve’s mouth—it’s familiar, that word in Steve’s voice, and it’s like wrapping a thick blanket around himself. Even when Steve’s irritated at him, the sound of Steve saying his name makes Bucky’s stomach lurch a little with giddiness.

“And we went to the park,” Steve’s saying, recounting two days ago, the last time Bucky ventured out of the apartment. “I thought it’d be good, you know, for both of us to get some fresh air and sun.”

“Bet that went well,” Clint comments cheekily.

“Well, I mean, it wasn’t terrible,” Steve defends his decision. “The problem—I know, you guys think Bucky lost it or something, but Bucky was _fine_ ; it was _me_ , I freaked out. There was this guy in a trench coat, and he just kept staring at Bucky, and I started…well, I thought he was HYDRA or something. I didn’t have my shield but I walked over—”

“You thought he was HYDRA and you just strolled on over?” Sam breaks in. “Dear Lord, in what way have I offended thee to get this idiot as a friend?”

“Well, I couldn’t let him do anything in the _park_ ,” Steve points out, scandalized. “There were a lot of people there! He could’ve hurt someone. But anyway, I went over and he wasn’t HYDRA but he _was_ bad. He was naked! He opened his trench coat and he didn’t have anything under!”

Clint and Sam howl with laughter and Bucky can hear even Natasha chuckling. Steve makes a distressed sound.

“There were kids around,” he points out.

“What did you do?” Clint asks.

“I didn’t know _what_ to do. But Bucky! You should’ve seen it; he walked right over and just _stared_ at him with this—this absolute murder look on his face, I don’t know how else to describe it—”

“We know the one,” Natasha assures him dryly.

“And the guy took one look at Bucky and skedaddled.” Steve chuckles and Bucky can picture him shaking his head and smiling. “It was so great.”

The conversation goes on, moves to other topics, but Bucky’s stuck behind on the way Steve told that story. He gets a little lump in his throat. That was a story about Bucky as he is now, all jumbled up and strange and wounded, and Steve told it just the same way he used to talk about Bucky jumping into fights and charming extra coffee off waitresses.

He didn’t sound one bit disappointed that this is the Bucky he has now, the one who sleeps two hours at a time and prowls the apartment at night, the one who takes showers hot enough to leave his skin red and angry-looking, the one who shies away from physical contact half the time.

Bucky takes a deep breath and pushes himself up off the floor. He pauses at the door to take another deep breath. He makes it almost all the way down the hall before he has to stop and breathe again. But then he’s slinking out, shoulders hunched a little, to the living room. Clint’s eyes widen when he sees Bucky, Natasha raises an eyebrow, and Sam’s words falter, the barest hint of hesitation, before he gets back to what he’s saying.

But Steve—Steve still knows Bucky best of all, and he knows that Bucky doesn’t want attention drawn to him just now. He smiles softly at Bucky and makes room for him on the couch, arm resting easily across the back. Bucky slides in and lets his shoulders brush Steve’s arm, watching as the little, secret smile on Steve’s face grows a little. Bucky makes it the entire way through the rest of Sam, Natasha, and Clint’s visit, even though he doesn’t say anything. He’s happy to sit beside Steve and listen to them laugh.

Maybe someday Bucky will tell them some stories about his best pal Steve.


End file.
